


The Fall of Camelot

by Libbyfay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale is the grown up, Canon Compliant, Courtly Love, Crowley deserves Knighthood, Crowley is So Done (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Drinking, Epilogue, Guinevere is pretty much an object, Knights are babies, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pining, Rejection, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, Sort Of, The Arrangement (Good Omens), The Black Knight Always Triumphs!, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-24 21:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Libbyfay/pseuds/Libbyfay
Summary: The first Arrangement, proposed in 537 A.D (“It would be easier if we both stayed home…”), was fundamentally different from the Arrangement that would be formally adopted close to three hundred years later.The Black Knight goes too fast!ORHow Crowley unwittingly caused the Fall of Camelot.  I mean… totally purposefully, with great cleverness and evil intent.  He did cause the Fall of Man, after all, so bringing down a kingdom was nothing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**537 A.D. - Camelot**

It was a damp day. All the days had been damp, but it was Aziraphale’s attempt to parlay with the Black Knight that had brought this discomfort to light.

Aziraphale had been prepared for a fight, but instead there had just been Crowley, trying to tempt him into some nonsense, making the argument for being warm and dry at any cost. They’d parted ways again, and Aziraphale and his squire had squelched their way back to Camelot.

Truthfully, Aziraphale hadn’t really noticed the damp until Crowley had pointed it out. Now, he couldn’t un-notice it. Mist swirled moodily around all the knights of the Round Table; it seemed to be a continual fact of nature. Mist helped with the romantic entrances and poetic pronouncements, but Crowley was right; it was pretty damned uncomfortable. When Aziraphale was forced to wear armor, moisture beaded and dripped from every joint. His every-day attire consisted of wet linen and a wool cloak saturated with at least a couple of pounds of water. His feet were always cold.

But, Aziraphale had great hopes for Camelot. The “city on the hill”, “the hope of all good men” was under his charge. Well, technically, he supposed, it was under King Arthur’s charge. But Arthur was only human, like the rest them. He was a bit too trusting, rather too hot tempered, and for all he loved his wife, he never seemed to _listen_ to Guinevere. That was shaping up to be something of a mess.

Aziraphale spent most of his time counseling the rest of the Knights of the Round Table, and the King for that matter, not to do anything stupid.

_Yes, well, I see how that would appear quite heroic. But… didn’t the King ask you to bring food and medicine to those starving people?_

_No, Galahad, in fact, I don’t think she’s a Lady of the Evening. But even if she were, you’re a Knight of the Round Table, for goodness sake!_

_Ah. Well, if I can’t stop you, my liege, perhaps I should come along._

_If there is, indeed, a pig-lizard in those woods, perhaps we ought to tell Arthur first before you go charging off by yourself…_

_What a lovely cloak pin, Percival. I declare, it looks like it could feed a village for a month. Perhaps you ought not to wear it while you’re hunting outlaws and bandits._

_No. For the last time, you’re altogether too drunk to seek an audience with the Queen!_

_Lancelot, don’t you think that milkmaid has lovely eyes? How she gazes after you. Now, that would be a gentle and uncomplicated love affair, if I do say so myself._

And so it went. Aziraphale was the celestial back-up that Arthur didn’t know he needed. The humans thought that Camelot belonged to the King, but they didn’t realize that an angel was carrying much of the weight.

It had been a trying morning, spent making peace between two of the loyal band of brothers. Bedivere had felt insulted by Galahad who had “scorned the heroism of his exploits by unflattering comparison” or some such nonsense. Aziraphale has assured them both that they would be immortalized in story and song.

“Perhaps, if I took it on myself to write a poem (Well, two poems of equal length, mind you) about each of you in turn. Would that settle things to your satisfaction?”

Bedivere had insisted that because he was the one who had been slighted, his poem should be four stanzas longer. Galahad had called him a baby and stormed out. Aziraphale had shrugged and gotten to work writing at a small desk in the corner of the hall. When he looked up from his poetry, he noticed that several of his fellow knights were now loitering at the perimeter of the room. Lancelot was standing apart, slumped against the wall, brooding up at Guinevere, where she sat on the dais, conversing with her husband. Aziraphale sighed expressively and went over to entreat Lancelot’s help in crafting a 20-stanza poem about Bedivere, or a 16-stanza poem about Galahad, which ever he would prefer. Either would be preferable to Lancelot’s current state of employment.

Lancelot and Aziraphale were quietly discussing the poems and considering giving them parallel structure all the way through so that, when read together, they would be rather funny. The two of them were wrestling with a rhyme for “pricked”, when a page announced there was a visitor requesting an audience. Aziraphale paid little heed to this, until a familiar voice drifted to his ears.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. This is truly the dream of my heart.”

Aziraphale jumped up as if bitten, dropping his quill and staring open-mouthed at the visitor. Crowley was on one knee before the dais, his radiant head bowed. There was no mistaking that hell-fire hair, standing out against the black wool cape at his shoulders. The Black Knight, scourge of the peaceful countryside, was kneeling, penitent before King Arthur, waiting to be recognized. He had traded in his menacing armor for a fine linen tunic in dark grey with a motif of red crosses at the hem.

Aziraphale’s stomach flipped over, as it usually did when Crowley appeared unexpectedly. He reminded himself that the demon was dangerous; that would explain the butterflies in his stomach. Aziraphale should have objected to his presence immediately but found he had no breath with which to speak. Without knowing what Crowley was doing in Camelot, perhaps it was safest to wait for the demon to show his hand.

The King spoke first. “Welcome, Sir. My aides tell me that you have waited two days, until we were at leisure to receive you. What would you request of us?”

Crowley raised his head and regarded the assembly. Though his eyes were hidden, Aziraphale could feel the precise moment Crowley saw him. There was an almost imperceptible twitch in one cheek that would have been a grin, if Crowley hadn’t been trying to school all the expression off his very expressive face.

“I come to serve.” Crowley answered humbly.

Arthur considered this. “We are already your King. Is that not enough of service?”

Crowley bent closer to the floor, this time. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I meant no offence. The noble exploits of you and your knights have inspired me. I wish to serve… more closely to the Round Table, so that I may learn Honor from your example.”

The King sighed. He was tired of receiving random nobles, continuously trying to insinuate themselves into his company. “One does not simply kneel and beg a seat at the Round Table! It is an honor to be earned.”

“I would not dream of sitting in your company as an equal… until I had saved each of your lives at least once!” At such audacity, Lancelot laughed out loud and Tristan and Percival exchanged scandalized whispers. Even Guinevere seemed to rouse herself, showing interest for the first time. Crowley continued, “Give me a year in your service, at the outside, before we talk of such things.” Arthur’s mouth hung open.

Aziraphale could feel everyone in the room beginning to succumb to Crowley’s charm. It was not to be born. “Majesty.” The angel interjected, stepping forward. “I would not trust a stranger who comes with such pride on his tongue! We know nothing of him.”

“Ah, Sir Aziraphale. Ever teaching us prudence.” The King commented, coolly, seemingly resigned to this dynamic with his angelic counselor.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and he rose to his feet in sudden eagerness. “Sir… Aziraphale? Can this be he?”

“It is he.” Arthur confirmed.

Aziraphale and Crowley both spoke, then, simultaneously. Aziraphale’s urgent cry of “Prudence is clearly warranted!”, overlapping with Crowley’s exclamation of “He that slay the Black Knight!”

“Wait. What?” Aziraphale stammered.

“I cannot believe my good fortune! It is he who inspired my journey here.” Finding the room primed to partake of a good story, Crowley continued. “The villagers near my home lived in terror of the Black Knight. He stole our possessions as tribute. And our crops. And, um, our daughters too, for his demented pleasure.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, “Oh, good Lord.”

“All the time!” Crowley added. “He was fearsome! None could defeat him. Till the noble Knight Aziraphale rides into town, all ‘be not afraid’ and the such like. Everyone had their doubts, I can tell you. But he matched the villain in single combat, as none had been able to do before. And though I wasn’t witness to the deed, we found the Black Knight’s body horribly mangled.”

Lancelot was intrigued. “He told us nothing of this! Good Aziraphale implied that it had been a draw.”

“Ran him though?” prompted Bedivere, eagerly.

“Nay! Decapitated, he was! This sweet-faced gentleman here had hewn the villain limb from limb. And back the modest hero went to Camelot, so that the souls he liberated never had the chance to thank him. I was deeply moved in gratitude, and, in intervening weeks, there arose in my heart a deep desire to follow in his footsteps. And so, I am here. Come to confirm what you, no doubt, already know. Never has there been so brave, skillful and heroic a knight as Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round.”

One or two people clapped in appreciation. Aziraphale scowled at Crowley. “Flattery will get you nowhere, serpent.” Whoops. Aziraphale bit his tongue, as he realized that reply had sounded rather _familiar_. Hopefully, the others would assume that he was speaking poetically.

Lancelot laid a steadying hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Tis very true,” Lancelot confirmed. “Your effusive gratitude is wasted, as Sir Aziraphale is an icon of humility.”

“If my honest admiration is unwelcome,” Crowley’s gaze burned into Aziraphale. “Then, tell me, how am I ever to win the trust of this worthy knight?” 

“Feed him sweets?” Percival suggested. (He was apparently still bitter about receiving Aziraphale’s censure over his cloak pin.)

“Duly noted.” Crowley answered, soberly, as if he didn’t comprehend the insult.

Arthur’s attention appeared to have been wandering, for it was then he changed the subject. “Tell me, sir, what is that device, shielding your face?”

Crowley pivoted smoothly into the new line of questioning. “They are known as spectacles, my Lord.”

“I have seen our magician with something similar, but they are not common. And yours are black.”

“Yes. It is smoked glass. I was born with a failing of the eyes, a condition that makes it impossible to withstand the light. A physician, trained in Rome, made these for me, so I am no longer crippled by my condition. I can still be of service to this company, I assure you.”

“A Roman physician, you say?”

“Yes, my King.”

“May I?”

Aziraphale stiffened. He’d seen Crowley turn positively feral if anyone tried to remove his spectacles. He’d actually bitten that cart driver in Istanbul. Arthur’s curiosity was going to cost him, but at least the jig would soon be up.

“I live to serve,” Crowley dropped down to one knee again, and to Aziraphale’s astonishment, he pulled the spectacles free. Eyes closed, he offered them up in his outstretched palm.

As furious as Aziraphale had been a only moment before, he now felt a confused kind of sympathy. He’d never seen Crowley in such an attitude of supplication. It didn’t suit him. A servant brought the lenses over to the king, who inspected them, fascinated and forgetting entirely about the man-shaped-being who needed them. Aziraphale’s emotions grew tangled in his breast. He wanted to remind Arthur that the newcomer might be in pain (or at least very anxious, anyway).

But this was probably all part of the demon’s plan. These were wiles meant to generate trust and… and sympathy. It appeared to be effective on everyone in the room, including the angel. Aziraphale should expose him immediately. He could walk over, startle Crowley, tilt his head back and those eyes would open. Superstition ran high in Camelot, and the man with “unnatural” eyes would be banished for witchcraft, at the very least.

But when they opened, those eyes would look up first into Aziraphale’s own. A cold vice clamped down on the angel’s too-human heart, and he found he could do nothing. No word to shorten his friend’s indignity. No gesture to save Camelot from a demon. Nothing.

Crowley waited while Arthur tried on the spectacles and smiled at Guinevere, hoping for a reaction. The Queen looked tolerant but bored. Eventually the King said, “This science could be employed to reduce glare off a battlefield.”

Crowley nodded. “I had not thought of that. Great is the wisdom of the King.” Aziraphale snorted, at this.

Arthur handed the glasses back to the servant to be returned. “Let it never be said that the King passed an opportunity to reap the wisdom of the world. Perhaps, one day, all knights’ helmets will be made of the stuff.”

Aziraphale’s brow creased in perplexity, but the king was forward thinking, sometimes to the point of ridiculousness. When Crowley returned the glasses to his face, Aziraphale felt unaccountably relieved. Reclaiming his confidence, the demon gave the King and Queen his most disarming grin. Guinevere sparkled and sat up a little straighter. _Honestly,_ Aziraphale sighed to himself.

Arthur commenced with the interview. “What skills do you offer?”

Crowley seemed prepared to remain kneeling, indefinitely. “I… I am well-traveled and skilled in languages.”

“And?”

“I’m also stronger than I look. No task is too menial when one is starting out in service.”

“Pious?” the King asked, and Aziraphale almost choked.

“Sincerely, my Lord.” Crowley answered smoothly. “I have known God intimately from my first memories, and I have great faith in certain angels.”

“Virtuous? For I need no more lechers in my company. Wouldn’t you agree, men?” There were grumbles and laughs and half-hearted objections from the room.

“Truly, I am as chaste as a monk, my Lord, and it would take considerable Effort to sway me from this. But…” Crowley hesitated. “May I take this moment to confess a failing of mine?”

The King nodded.

“I am possessed of one terrible vice…” Crowley paused for effect. “A love of fine alcohol shared with friends. I throw myself on your mercy!” He dropped his head and extended his arms as if waiting for a bolt from above. The demon’s theatrics had the desired effect, and everyone began to laugh.

Guinevere clapped her hands, delighted. “He’ll fit right in!” she exclaimed.

Lancelot seemed more dismayed at her outburst than the King. Arthur answered, “Aye, we Knights of the Round are pious, virtuous and honorable, but, I fear, we fall short of abstemious! Very well, Sir. We are willing to receive your service, on trial for a fortnight. You will report to the quartermaster and take a turn in the armory. If all goes well, you may start out as a page to one of our company. Sir Aziraphale, who you so admire, has not had decent help in his personal service for some time.”

Aziraphale shook his head vigorously, appalled that this mockery had advanced so far. Was Crowley to be practically promised into his own service?

“I could only aspire to serve such a one as he!” The demon gave his friend a tiny smirk, the first recognizable expression to slip past his veneer.

“I am in no great need.” Aziraphale managed.

“We shall see,” Arthur mused. “What’s to be, will be. In all things, God’s will shall be done.”

That platitude spoken while Crowley still grinned at him, scrambled Aziraphale’s thoughts terribly. All he could do was bow his head in confused acceptance.

Crowley rose, obviously pleased with himself. “Thank you, My Lord. And may I say, I’m looking forward to getting to know you all better!”

* * *

Aziraphale stood alone atop the castle wall, looking out over Camelot. The land below was generally peaceful and prosperous, for now, but he’d begun to worry. Now that the Serpent of Eden had arrived, Aziraphale was suddenly realizing that this Eden might suffer the same fate as the first one.

He felt Crowley come silently up the steps behind him. He’d expected this.

“Hello Aziraphale!” The demon tapped him playfully on his right shoulder, before ducking quickly around to the angel’s left. Aziraphale swiveled a little frantically, but then regained his composure sufficiently _not_ to answer. “Well this place is certainly… interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bunch of humans wound so tight! Oh, how far we’ve come from those heathen nights back in Ireland, eh?” No response. So, apparently, they were going to pretend that hadn’t happened. Crowley couldn’t quite hide his disappointment. “Back to being adversaries, I guess?”

“Why are you here?” Aziraphale asked coldly, his eyes on the horizon.

“Because you are.” Crowley answered with a shrug, as if that it explained everything. “And we didn’t finish our conversation. You didn’t hear me out.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale scoffed, by which he meant, that’s so absurd that I’m going to let you save face by pretending I mis-heard you.

But now that Crowley had his attention, he grinned and answered in reasonable terms, “I said we could cancel each other out by just staying home, but there’s more to my plan that that.”

“And I said ‘no’, if you recall. We are most certainly done with that conversation! And yet you come into my home and –“

Crowley was forced to interrupt. “Come on! This isn’t your _home_ , angel. You don’t have to pretend with me. It’s not… It’s just not you! It’s not cozy. It’s damp, and cold, and pompous. You can’t stand palaces, and you hate politics! The last time you were in a royal court you called it a hornet’s nest.”

Aziraphale sighed and pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter against the chill. Crowley knew him too well. It wasn’t a good sign when your hereditary enemy could tell how badly you were lying to yourself. “But, it’s the idea of it, Crowley.” And suddenly, the warmth came back into Aziraphale’s voice as he tried to make his friend understand. “The ideal. You remember all those cruel pharos and princes and chiefs… The one thing they all had in common was ‘might makes right’. You know how I’ve hated it.”

“Yeah.” Aziraphale wasn’t the only one who was sick of it all. Not that it would do to admit that.

“They’ve been trying something new here.” Aziraphale gestured to indicate the prosperous homes, quiet countryside and the passable roads. “Camelot could change the way human society moves forward. A noble king. All men as equals, under a common morality.”

“What about the women?” Crowley asked dryly.

“Oh… uh. Well.” Aziraphale twisted his hands together and looked a little pale.

Crowley dropped his chin and managed to give Aziraphale a direct look, over his spectacles. “Still not quite equal under your common morality?”

“I’m afraid not… yet. I know, we’ve been waiting a long time. But the knights of Camelot do actually treat women with respect. There’s a whole philosophy of Courtly Love… which governs...” Crowley lifted an eyebrow, skeptical, but Aziraphale continued. “Well, look. Things are getting better, little by little. I’m just trying to help.”

“I know, angel.” He gave Aziraphale’s arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Of course, you are.” Crowley wasn’t being sarcastic. He knew that Aziraphale’s missions were always harder. It was so much easier to poke things until they fell down, but his angel was trying desperately to keep something intact. Crowley could already tell that Camelot was slumping and leaning dangerously. Aziraphale cared so damn much, that he was probably making mortar out of his own tears to reinforce these walls. Crowley admired the commitment of course, but it wasn’t fair. How many futile assignments would Heaven send the poor bastard on before he figured out the pattern? Aziraphale deserved to be happy, cozy and content. In fact, he deserved it far more than Crowley, who worked tirelessly toward comfort as his personal goal.

“The dream of Camelot,” Crowley mused and removed his spectacles with feigned nonchalance, tucking them into a hidden pocket of his tunic. “It’s just a dream, though.” _Yep, I’m a bastard. Never said I wasn’t. From snout to tail, bastard._ Crowley looked right into Aziraphale’s sweet blue eyes and tried to deliver his next words in a gentler tone. “It’s going to self-destruct. You know that, right? Human nature, angel. It can’t last.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and shifted on his feet. He couldn’t quite process how he felt about that. He knew that Crowley was probably right. What upset him most, however, was the idea that the demon felt sorry for him. Had he come to mock Aziraphale's efforts? “Maybe I am naïve!” the angel quipped back. “Maybe all my efforts will be wasted. Especially now, since they’ve been foolish enough to let the serpent in by the front gate.”

Crowley’s laugh was hollow. “Well, I guess we’re right back where we started. There’s a serpent within these walls, angel. Better use your flaming sword on him, before he does more damage.”

Aziraphale tucked his chin to his chest, embarrassed. “I… I gave it away,” he murmured, stealing a glance at Crowley’s striking profile, his lovely curls. He’d given away all his defenses against this demon, long ago. “Won’t you just leave?” the angel asked.

“Nah.” Crowley didn’t look over. Any eye contact, and he knew he’d cave.

“Please leave Camelot, Crowley.” The angel begged.

“Don’t feel like it. Thought I’d have some fun first. You know how much I like to poke stuff.” He poked Aziraphale gently in the side to prove his point.

Aziraphale recoiled, and with his hands balled into fists, he commanded, “By all the powers of Heaven, get the hence, demon, and trouble me no more!” Crowley made a snorting sound. Aziraphale sighed, “It was worth a try.”

“Look. You’re here, recklessly spreading peace and tranquility, and it’s my duty to stop you.” It was important to emphasize the risk he posed. “I’m good at my job. I’ll figure out what makes the Knights of the Round Table tick, and then, I’ll tempt them into... stuff.” He finished vaguely.

“Can’t you just go back to being the Black Knight and fomenting around the country side?”

Crowley shook his head with regret. “I’m afraid he’s hacked to bits. Haven’t you heard?”

They were talking at cross purposes. It was vital to make Crowley understand, somehow. “Camelot is… this social experiment is very fragile right now, and-“

“I’ll go.” Crowley interrupted, eagerly jumping at his chance. “If you come with me!”

“What?”

“Hell wouldn’t want me surrendering the field to you. I can’t give it up while you’re still hard at it. So, let’s both quit,” Crowley grinned manically, “at the same time!” Aziraphale just blinked at him response. “What do you say?”

“But.” The angel’s thoughts were scattered in disarray. “You. For all the… That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard!” He tossed his hands “We can’t quit!”

“I thought it was rather clever, actually.” The demon replied with a little pout.

“And then lie in our reports?” Released from their strangle-hold, Aziraphale’s hands now flapped in Crowley’s face. “That’s your big plan?”

“Yep. Lie, lie, and lie some more. It’s better than actively working to bring about the downfall of a kingdom wouldn’t you say?” The demon tried to look menacing and missed it by miles.

Aziraphale’s brow folded into that worried crease, his lips pressed tight and bloodless. He was at least considering it. “Lie? And stay home?”

Crowley grinned. “But there’s a bit more to this Arrangement than that, you see.”

“By all means, enlighten me.”

And, success! Finally, an open invitation to temptation. Crowley was only going to get one chance at this, so he made sure that his voice was smooth, and he exuded enough confidence to hide his nervousness.

“We leave here. Together. And, congratulations! You’ve gotten the serpent out of Camelot. Well done! First things first, we head for the sleazyiest tavern we can find and get roaring drunk. We laugh ourselves silly all night as you regale me with stories of the repressed hypocrites you’ve been trying to save.” Aziraphale’s heart warmed at the thought of a whole evening with his friend. It _had_ been a long time. “Next morning, we set out on a good long wander. On foot. No armor, no horses.” Crowley made a sweeping gesture to the land beyond Camelot. He was tailoring this temptation to their shared preferences. “Till we find a cottage that we can buy out from under some hapless farmer and his family. I know, don’t worry, they’ll walk away rich beyond their wildest dreams. And that’s when we’ll… settle down.” Crowley hazarded a quick glance over, at this point.

“Settle down?” Aziraphale’s voice was flat. Was he confused? Stunned?

“Yeah, uh,” Crowley swallowed hard. “And I promise to stay put, too. So, you could thwart me morning, noon and night. At all times, actually. And, see, it’s better for everyone, if you just neutralize me… I mean neutralize the risk. That’s what I meant. We’d both just _stay home_ , and we could have a couple of goats. I’ve always wanted try gardening.”

“Goats?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley worried that he’d gone into shock.

“Goat cheese.” Crowley explained, patiently. There was no recognition in Aziraphale’s face. “For you.” He clarified. “To eat.” He explained further. Why was this so difficult to understand?

“How? I mean, what would we…” Aziraphale trailed off.

“Whatever we wanted!” Crowley blurted out. It wasn’t effective when the tempter sounded too enthusiastic about the idea (industry standard best practices, and all that). But there was a part of him that wanted Aziraphale to know. Didn’t angels usually respond well to honest-to-goodness begging? “I would really like that. To make a home, and stay home, with you.” He hesitated and then added, “Even if it was only for a little while.”

Aziraphale looked at the demon as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re crazy.” He stated.

“M’not.” Crowley considered, “Well, maybe, but I’ve given this some thought. This arrangement could be much warmer and cozier than this drafty old castle. Idealism can be so cold, don’t you think? Not to mention damp. I-“

“What about the humans?” Aziraphale asked. “I can’t just-“

“Leave them to their folly, angel! Maybe this is just a stupid dream, but it’s no worse than Camelot, really. At least humans get a chance to try, anyway. Why don’t we get the same chance?” They were facing each other, now. The wall and Camelot beyond had been forgotten. Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand lightly in his own, gentle as if touching a wild animal that might bolt.

They had touched before on accident. They had touched to pull or push the other out of danger. Aziraphale had even carried him around as a 10-foot-long snake, but they had never just touched hands, skin to skin like this.

“They’ll find us!” Aziraphale sounded rather desperate, now. “What if my people come looking?” 

“Oh fine!” Crowley tutted. “You get to tie me up real tight, from time to time, under the sight of heaven, just to prove who’s thwarting who.” Aziraphale’s mind ground to a sudden halt at that image. All the color drained out of the angel’s face. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

Crowley grinned at Aziraphale’s discomfort. Then, after a moment, he sobered and said with absolute sincerity, “You deserve to be happy.”

Aziraphale looked down at their hands. The touch was so light, and his fingers were so cold, that he could barely feel it. A pity, that. So instead, he fixed the image in his mind, memorizing the shape of Crowley’s fingers wrapped around his, and tucked it away for later. Then, he pulled back, clutching the offending hand to his chest. “What makes you think I’m not happy? How do you know what makes me happy? I’m an angel! What makes me happy is to fulfill my mission on earth.”

“But-“ Crowley tried to interject.

“My _home_ is in Heaven!” Aziraphale barreled on, his stomach wringing itself into a terrible cramping feeling. “Not with you! And I’m not going to forsake my one duty on earth just to pursue my own selfish…” There were tears in his eyes.

“Wait! Hold on. Then, you’re saying you _would_ -“

“Absolutely not!”

“But you just said-”

“No. And don’t you suggest any such thing. Don’t make me regret ever speaking to you the very first time!”

“Aziraphale, I-“

“Stay if you will, demon.” The angel said haughtily, pert little nose in the air.

Crowley rose to the challenge. “Oh, believe it! I intend to!”

“And I will just have to go about thwarting you the old-fashioned way.”

Crowley shrugged, suddenly distant. He fumbled in the folds of his robes for a moment, till he had retrieved his glasses. As he returned them to his face, he spoke, uncaring, “Well, like I said, that was your one chance to stop me.”

“Do your worst! And don’t you ever reopen this discussion, or it will be the end of whatever THIS is.” Aziraphale waved his hand to indicate the space between them. “Understand?”

There was a pause, as they both contemplated the mist rolling in at the base of the castle wall.

“Well,” Crowley said eventually, “that went down like a lead balloon.”

And getting no answer, the demon slithered back down the way he’d come.

* * *

After the spectacular failure of his first proposal, Crowley did as he’d promised. He stayed on and tried to make a nuisance of himself. It wasn’t that he was particularly keen to upset things in Camelot; his only real goal was to upset Aziraphale. He figured the best way to do that would be to affect loyalty and trustworthiness, biding his time and making friends. Crowley took his role as a menial servant seriously. In time, he planned to prove himself, so that he’d be allowed greater proximity to the King… well, alright, to Aziraphale. The angel had been studiously avoiding him.

In spite of his frustration, Crowley tried to project the confidence of a demon with great plans to enjoy himself. All that devil-may-care cockiness might have annoyed the angel, if he’d even been paying attention, but it had the opposite effect on everyone else. Like called to like, and Crowley’s ego and swagger apparently charmed the leggings off the other Knights. With almost occult speed, he moved from polishing armor, to telling ribald stories, to being invited on hunting expeditions with the band of brothers. 

Crowley might still be a servant, but he turned up in places servants wouldn’t normally be found. Aziraphale came into the dining hall one evening and found Crowley, pouring wine into several tankards and then taking a seat himself. They’d made eye contact for a moment, before Aziraphale decided he’d prefer to eat in his chamber. Two days later, he’d come across the demon fussing over Percival, helping get his hair just right. Crowley could even be found in the throne room from time to time, and since Aziraphale couldn’t very well absent himself completely from the King’s side, they tried to ignore the sound of each other’s voices echoing in the hall. He’d overheard Crowley letting Tristan win a game of fidchell. (Crowley usually let Aziraphale win.)

One evening, angel and demon had chanced upon each other in a corridor near the royal apartments. Crowley had only been passing through, but he was pleased that his presence in that part of the castle would appear suitably nefarious. Guinevere was walking toward him, headed for her own chamber. He hadn’t quite worked up to addressing the Queen directly, but he bowed deeply and waited in front of her chamber door. As she approached, she smiled. Aziraphale, coming upon this scene from an intersecting corridor, had watched as the two of them shared rather a lot of eye-contact. The demon threw open the door before her with a flourish, and Guinevere disappeared within. Crowley pulled the door politely closed and turned to look right at Aziraphale. He lowered his glasses a fraction, giving Aziraphale a wicked wink before sauntering away, hips swinging.

Crowley relished every scowl, every scandalized look the angel gave him. He was terrorizing his adversary, who, he fancied, lived in dread of what Crowley might do next. In truth, Crowley hadn’t decided on his next move. He could do anything. He could encourage a war. He could do some demonic miracles that’d lead to a witch hunt in the court. He might steal that damn cloak pin and blame it on Bedivere. Anything. He might do anything… but he didn’t.

Despite appearances, Crowley was not really enjoying himself. It was infuriating to see Aziraphale almost every day, and not be able to talk to him. He’d catch a glimpse of white, and he’d be assailed first with that damned burst of affection and then the cold splash of bitterness to tamp it back down, again. His palate in the servants’ quarters was cold and narrow, nothing like the bed he’d planned for their cottage. He tried not to think about it, but every night that imagined bed became bigger, softer, warmer.

Crowley was in the great hall again, late in the afternoon, having been invited to a fidchell rematch. Aziraphale was there also, at the far end of the room, transcribing something the King was dictating to him. Crowley’s eyes kept drifting up to watch the angel. This made concentration impossible and ensured that Tristan was going to win again. But Crowley soon noticed that he wasn’t the only one staring; Sir Lancelot appeared to be in a similar state. Lancelot was, once again, leaning against the wall and devouring Guinevere with his gaze. Crowley’s eyes darted from Lancelot to the Queen, who was sighing over her needlepoint. He looked back to Aziraphale, who appeared similarly oblivious to scrutiny. Then, regarding Lancelot again, Crowley felt sudden kinship with the love-sick fool. Once the game was finished, he swaggered up to Lancelot and dragged him off, with the promise of quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

* * *

“Women!” Lancelot exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air.

“Yeah. Women.” Crowley didn’t feel the need to disagree. Besides, he thought fuzzily, angelic-man-shaped beings were kind of the same principle. “Can’t live with ‘em... Can’t live… _with_ ‘em. Right?”

They’d been drinking for a few hours by this point. Initially, the knight had tried to resist Crowley’s wiles. Because the Queen had smiled at Crowley that first day, Lancelot had been prepared to shun the charming stranger. But the wine which Crowley produced had been miraculously better than anything that was usually on offer, even at the King’s table. It had warranted an invitation to drink in the knight’s private apartments. And not long into the second cup, it had become clear that Crowley wanted to talk about Lancelot’s favorite topic: love.

“What does someone like _you_ know of Love?” Lancelot had asked, and the other man, usually suave and unflappable, had come close to crumbling. He had gone suddenly pale, and his lip wobbled.

“Not a damn thing, obviously.” Crowley sniffed, trying to recover himself. “What do either of us know? You’ve got your untouchable lady, and I’ve got my own… problem.”

Lancelot had felt rather better after that, and they had begun commiserating in earnest.

“They unmake us,” Lancelot was saying, sadly.

Crowley drunkenly patted at his arm. “I hear you, brother! It isn’t fair.”

“Do they even know what they do to us?”

“Pretty sure they do.” Crowley topped up both glasses from a bottle that never seemed to empty. “Especially, when they ignore us. They’re doing it on purpose to torture us… not a word.”

“Mine cannot speak to me. Her virtue demands it.”

“Ha! Mine says plenty. Sometimes you can’t shut them up! Talk the hind leg off a horse. Till suddenly, BAM!” Crowley smacked the table. “They clam up, just to prove a point.”

“Such exquisite torture.” Lancelot looked like he was contemplating something sublime.

“Nothin’ ec- esc-uisite about it.” the demon muttered. Then, leaning across the table, he became intent. “Lance, I’m curious. What would you do win her love?”

“Anything.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. That sounded promising. “Cuz I think I need to up my game. Tell me, what’ve you tried?”

“Tried?” Lancelot stared back, stupidly.

“Tried.” Crowley prompted, again. “As in, what’s your angle? What did you offer her? I had this arrangement all worked out, but it… it wasn’t good enough. I need new material.”

“I haven’t ‘tried’ anything!” Lancelot drew himself up, with drunken indignation. “I cannot besmirch my honor and hers by propositioning her.”

Crowley leaned back in his chair, as far away from Lancelot as he could possibly lean without toppling over, and scrunched his brow as if trying to bring the other man into focus. “Pardon me? You haven’t?”

“Of course not!” Lancelot sounded offended.

Crowley was even more offended. “Never risked a damn thing? And you call yourself a knight? Jesus. I didn’t think I had more balls than-” Crowley lifted his glass in the air, shouting, “I demand a knighthood!” He rapped on the table with his other fist, raising his voice to belligerent levels. “I’ve proved my courage, feats of strength, shameless stupidity! Where’s my knighthood?”

“You’ll never be a knight.” Lancelot snapped back. “You’re an ass.”

Crowley shrugged this off. “But you don’t get to go whingeing around here like you got your heart broken, when you didn’t ante up! This place isn’t cozy, and I offered cozy! Who’d turn that down? You can whine to me when you’ve put it all out there… When you’ve laid your jewels at her feet, and she’s ground them into the mud with her heel… When you’ve humiliated yourself about goats.”

Lancelot seemed as confused as Aziraphale had been. “Goats?”

“Goat cheese.” Crowley explained, patiently.

“I don’t pretend to understand all that you’re saying, Crowley, but it is clear you think me a coward.”

“It’s ok, Lance.” The demon sympathized, checking Lancelot's cup and refilling it. “I’ve been a coward too. Why don’t you tell her how you feel?”

“She would repulse me!” It came out as a pathetic wail.

Crowley grinned. “Are you quite sure about that? She seems rather… _game,_ to me.”

“How dare you!?!?” Lancelot jumped to his feet, and half drew his sword.

Crowley knew this to be bluster, and he remained slumped, bonelessly in his chair. “You haven’t noticed? She’s clearly unfulfilled! Wait, do you even know anything about her? I bet you just like the way she looks in blue. Like the Virgin Mary. Who didn’t even wear blue, by the way… Ever gotten drunk with this _love_ of yours?” Crowley began to wave his arms around, for emphasis. “Saved her life? Let her save your pathetic life? Had a fight? I mean, love isn’t love till you’ve seen their hypocrisy and told ‘em so… to his stupid face.” (Wait, that came out wrong.) “I bet you haven’t even talked to her! I’m right, aren’t I? I’m right. You don’t talk to her.”

Lancelot couldn’t deny it. Baffled by this onslaught, he stood, hand still on his sword hilt, and said nothing.

“Because why talk to a woman, eh? Might learn something. Don’t get me started! I think I can see why she’s unfulfilled. Is she some sort of religious icon to you people?”

Lancelot seemed to be trying to decide whether to walk out then and there, but Crowley lifted his cup and waved it temptingly in front of his face. The knight sighed, defeated, snatched his cup back and sat down again. “She is, indeed, the object of my idolatry.”

Crowley wagged a shaming finger. “That’s a sin, that is.”

“Love is no sin, Crowley. Through love, we glorify God.” The demon made a face of disgust. “God asks that we love selflessly.”

“And you’re doin’ a great job of that, mate!” Crowley smacked his shoulder.

Lancelot seemed not to notice the sarcasm in that, and he went on. “But I have loved above my station, above the natural order. Is it the same for you?”

“Above… yeah.” Crowley swallowed. “Way above. Something like that. Against the ‘natural order’. Yeah.”

“Well then, we are both, in a sense, lucky!” Lancelot’s eyes shone with something akin to religious ecstasy. “We can put all our aspirations in one who is above us and walk with our eyes turned ever upward. And if the object of our love is unattainable… then the love we feel will be as distant and perfect as our love for God. Never to be consummated. Courtly Love is a blessing and a trial of knightly proportions.” Lancelot raised his chin, his voice full of passion. “The purpose, laid before me… to love from afar, yet remain near enough to serve.”

“Or,” Crowley offered, “just pull Cupid’s arrow right out of your chest. Hurts like bloody Hell, I’d imagine…” He took a long drink, and muttered into his cup, “God-damned, angel.”

“No, I see it clearly! We must walk the world in this state. By suffering in love, by denying the flesh, we are raised up…To a state of grace.”

Crowley actually spit out the remnants of wine in his mouth. “State of grace?” He sputtered. “That’s a load of bollox!”

“It’s God’s Plan, Crowley.”

This was too much for him. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Not you too?” Crowley stood up, all awkward angles, overturning his chair, which toppled to the ground behind him. “I can’t take it. I’m cursed! Ineffable-sarding-ass… pissing…” He struggled for more swear words. “Bollox!”

Lancelot had been proud of his epiphany and was rather disappointed at its reception. “You’ve a foul mouth on you, sir.”

“Truly, you have opened my eyes, Sir Lancelot! And I’m in your debt.” Crowley bowed deeply to the other man. “For showing me just what a fool I am. Hanging around, mooning over some untouchable, ineffable idol.” He strode across the room, and if he wobbled drunkenly, he fancied it only added emphasis to his words. “Certainly won’t be achieving that ‘state of grace’! So why torture myself with proximity? Hanging around pining, like a knightly fool? There's lots of other places to go, people to annoy, crimes to do!” Crowley grabbed up his cloak.

He was obviously leaving, but one final thought occurred to him, and he returned to the table saying, “It takes an idiot to teach an idiot.” The demon leaned in very close and fixed Lancelot with the full force of his stare from behind his spectacles. His chin jutted forward, and suddenly his teeth were somehow terrifyingly prominent. “Ssso here’s my advice, from one idiot to another: Either make a move, or move on. Shit or get off the chamber pot!”

Lancelot just blinked stupidly, as Crowley swung his black cloak over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. “I’m getting off!” He announced and left the room. Moments later, his voice could be heard echoing triumphantly back up the stairwell. “Onward and downward!”

Lancelot finished the bottle of wine, alone. It took an extraordinarily long time for it to run dry, but that was alright, because he had a lot to think about.

The next day, Lancelot had his very first conversation with Guinevere.

They had fucked by the end of the week.

* * *

So, it happened, that Camelot did indeed self-destruct, just as Crowley had predicted.

He received an infernal commendation, a little blood-red ribbon for a job well done. He was quite proud of it, and he wore the ribbon around for a while. But he’d put it away and forgotten about it by the time he broke down and sought out Aziraphale once again. This time, he offered to “lend a hand when needed”.

By the time Crowley came around to proposing the second version of the Arrangement, Camelot was but a memory.


	2. Epilogue

**The Bookshop - Present Day**

In recent weeks, they had dropped the pretext of distance. Crowley still lounged on his corner of the bookshop sofa, but now Aziraphale sat with him, leaning so that Crowley’s arm, which was usually draped on the back of the sofa, now rested over the angel’s shoulders, instead. The demon’s glasses had been discarded and lost in the bookshop’s clutter, hours ago.

Their conversation had petered out into companionable silence, and Crowley wondered whether Aziraphale might be dozing off. He peeked at his watch and found it late enough to be considered early. Aziraphale might want his own space for the rest of the evening, and though he was sinfully comfortable, Crowley was determined never again to be accused of going too fast.

“Best be heading home,” he said softly into the angel’s white curls.

Aziraphale straightened and looked over his shoulder, dismayed. “Why?”

“Because… it’s late.” Crowley explained, lamely.

“Oh! But we shouldn’t waste what’s left of this bottle, here.” Aziraphale untangled himself. Grabbing a bottle had had been empty for hours, he filled up the two glasses that had been sitting, forgotten on the coffee table.

“Heaven forbid.” Crowley said, taking the offered glass.

“Oh, they do.” Aziraphale confirmed, absently, and twisted himself all the way round to sit up against the other arm of the sofa. But before Crowley could feel too bereft of the contact, Aziraphale had squirmed his stocking feet underneath the demon’s thighs. Crowley patted one argyle-covered ankle and took a sip of wine to cover his besotted grin.

Apropos of nothing, Aziraphale asked, “Do you ever think about the Arrangement?”

“Course, I do!” Crowley raised a glass in salute. “The good ‘ol Arrangement. Those were the days!”

“I suppose it’s rather obsolete, now.” Aziraphale sounded sad.

Crowley blinked. “Do you miss raising Hell, angel? Cuz I bet I could come up with a temptation or two for you, so you don’t fall out of practice. You’d got quite good at it… by around the 20th century.”

“Oh, hush!” Aziraphale blushed and waved this away. “I was never very good. But I do miss those days.”

“What part, exactly? The clandestine meetings? Never being able to…” Crowley pivoted away from that. “Always looking over our shoulders? Wondering when they were going to catch you in the act… and knowing it would be my fault when they did.”

“Oh, dearest.” Aziraphale murmured with deep compassion.

Crowley blew past the sympathy. “The point is, it’s served its purpose. Now, we don’t need an excuse!”

“Don’t we?”

“Do we?”

“Well, we must.” Aziraphale countered. “As you were apparently just about to leave here… even before we’d finished the wine. And you know it’d be wasted-”

“Angel. Sorry, but I _did_ notice when you miracled it full again!” Crowley wasn’t one to play the fool.

Aziraphale drained his glass and placed it on the floor, very deliberately. Then, he extracted his toes and rose to stand in the middle of the room. He fixed Crowley with that withering stare that made him want to shift back into a snake. “I propose a new Arrangement.”

Oh, this was likely to be good. Crowley put down his glass as well and straightened up in his seat, so that they were facing-off. “Alright. Your terms?”

“Your terms.” The angel echoed.

“Huh?”

“I’m talking about your first… proposal. The one I rejected.”

Crowley pulled a face. “Why go to Alpha Centauri, now? There’s no good restaurants!”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Aziraphale tossed his hands and began to pace. “Have you no recollection? Doing each other’s work was _Version 2_ of the Arrangement. Under the circumstances, I think we should consider going back to Version 1.”

Crowley had a sinking feeling that he knew where this might be going. But he hadn’t thought about his Great Embarrassment for some time. All he knew with certainty was that Version 1, as Aziraphale called it, had failed miserably. Crowley swallowed hard.

Aziraphale continued, like a solicitor counting out his points. “Let’s see… shirk our duties to Heaven and Hell. Done.” He drew a little check mark in the air with his finger. “Spend all our time together, canceling each other out with great precision. Done. Settle down and stay…” Aziraphale stopped and looked into Crowley. “Stay home.” He finished.

Crowley looked blank, or maybe terrified.

“You know, thwart each other morning, noon and night.” Aziraphale prodded, hoping to remind him. “So… well, there’d be no need for you to go back to yours.”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t –“

“Oh.” Aziraphale deflated. “You don’t remember.” He sunk down, glad that sturdy little coffee table happened to be behind him. He stared at the floor, trying to reorganize his thoughts.

“I... do… actually.” Crowley said in a small voice. “Make a home. Stay home. With you.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and let the sound of that sink in. How often he’d replayed those words over and over, first in frustration, then confusion and eventually in regret. Could this really be his second chance? “I’d like that.” He hazarded to look up. “Now. Finally. A-assuming that you still would.”

Crowley’s eyes were suspiciously liquid. The only answer he could give was a tiny little nod, but that was all the confirmation Aziraphale needed, before launching himself at the demon and throwing his arms around his middle. Crowley was startled stiff for a moment, before he remembered to reciprocate. Aziraphale was on his knees in front of the couch, hugging Crowley with all the strength in his powerful arms.

“So, do we have a deal?” Aziraphale asked into Crowley’s shoulder.

“Well, that depends.” The demon said, with the air of one who is about to drive a hard bargain. “Do the terms still include a cottage?”

Aziraphale drew back, and he was grinning from ear to ear. “Oh certainly! With a spare room door that’s miracled to open up right back here at the bookshop.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought, I see. And a garden for me to discipline?”

“And a goat!” Aziraphale reminded him, poking him in the chest with one eloquent finger.

“Yup. For goat cheese. Got it.”

“And I almost forgot…” Aziraphale’s eyes were sparkling, wickedly. “If I’m not mistaken, I get to tie you up!”

Crowley flushed to the ears, but he managed to sound quite chivalrous when he replied, “That settles it. The Arrangement is dead. Long live the Arrangement!”

And the New Arrangement (which was actually the First Arrangement) was sealed with a kiss that was long overdue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope this made you smile! If you're curious, the mention of "heathen nights back in Ireland" is a reference to my other story Banishing Snakes. They had a much better time in Ireland than they did in Camelot, actually. 
> 
> Thank you to all the beautiful people who make this Fandom such an inclusive and delightful place to be. And special thanks to [HolRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose) who provided inspiration and insight into knightly things and Courtly Love. Your support means a lot, and I can't wait for your next work!
> 
> You might not know how much comments mean to me, so let me just say... they mean the WORLD. Please drop me a line to let me know what you think!


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